Author's Note: Another Tumblr post inspired AU (linked in the story on my Tumblr) - enjoy!
Rude Awakening
The last thing Emma expects to see when she walks into her living room is a shirtless man lying face-down on her couch.
Her experience as a bail bondsperson kicks in right away, and she grabs the nearest thing to use as a weapon: a tabletop lamp. It's then that the man makes a sound halfway between a grunt and a snore, shifting to wedge himself more firmly between the cushions, and she realizes that he's fast asleep.
Still brandishing the lamp, her heart calming slightly, Emma takes quick stock of the room. Nothing seems to be missing that would implicate this as some kind of failed robbery attempt – really, though, what kind of burglar would break in only to fall asleep on the couch? The only thing out of place is the screen on her window leading to the fire escape, which is lying on the floor haphazardly.
Jesus Christ. Emma's irritation at this stranger deepens as she puts down the lamp to move across the room and shove the screen back into place, wearily imagining the bugs probably sheltering from the baking summer heat all over her kitchen. Then she turns to face the more immediate problem.
The man is sprawled across the upholstery, completely unconscious, one arm hanging over the edge of the couch, his leather-clad feet dangling in the air over the armrest (at least she knows he's not some random homeless person). His face is smashed into a pillow in a way that's probably uncomfortable, so she has no idea who he is – certainly not anyone she knows, since Victor would have known better (and would have received a far warmer welcome at Ruby's) and David seems to be taking his newfound marital status extremely seriously, and neither of them has messy dark hair anyway.
She vaguely wonders if she should be calling the police, but she figures she's handled much worse than to be afraid of someone built like this guy. That's not to say that the guy isn't well-built, because he's definitely fit from what little she can see of him (not that she's mesmerized by the way his muscles shift in his smooth back when he breathes or how broad and angled his shoulders are or how the gentle curve of his spine becomes the curve of his ass through his black trousers) – well, the point is that she couldn't care less about how this guy looks as long as he gets the hell out of her apartment, even if she has to put up a fight on a Saturday morning.
Carefully, she sticks out a leg and pokes him in the back of his thigh with her toe. He makes a rough noise low in his throat before flipping over in a clumsy shuffle, and Emma barely has enough time to wonder how he hasn't already fallen off the couch in the state he seems to be in before wishing he'd just stayed lying on his stomach.
The guy is – there really isn't another way to put it without sounding like an idiot – the guy's hot, even totally dead to the world, with his mouth falling open in an ungainly way that would be unattractive on anyone else but somehow just makes him look endearing. Unfortunately, he's still completely unrecognizable, even after a few moments of staring at his face with that scruffy stubble and those long lashes (and his lean chest dusted with that dark hair trailing into his trousers), so she goes ahead and shoves him harder with her foot.
"Five more minutes, love," he mumbles, and of course he has an English accent too, she notes with misplaced irritation. Her eyes roam over the room, and there it is – a dark blue button up shirt is crumpled in the loveseat. She gingerly steps over his hand from where it's fallen onto the carpet, edging between the couch and the coffee table in a maneuver that brings her too close to his body for comfort, to grab it before flinging it unceremoniously into his face.
"Hey, get up," she snaps. To her satisfaction, he jerks awake with the impact, scrambling with the shirt before blinking up at her with the bluest eyes she's ever seen.
He stares at her groggily for a few seconds while she tries not to admit that the bemused expression on his face is adorable – she's supposed to be upset at him, for Christ's sake, because what the hell is he even doing in her apartment? – and then his lips curve into a wicked grin that makes her regret not being a little more forceful with her throw.
"Hey, beautiful."
Killian hadn't planned on going home with anyone last night. He'd just wanted to get a few drinks after work, then drag his sorry drunk ass over to Robin's (which was much closer to The Rabbit Hole than his own apartment) to crash on his couch. He didn't think Robin would mind, since that was what he'd been doing nearly every weekend since Milah, and it wasn't like Roland didn't love having "Uncle Killy" over for Saturday brunch anyway.
That's why Killian is extremely confused at the sight of the stunning blonde hovering over him, her hair glowing like a halo on her head with the backlight from the window, but her arms crossed and her bright eyes sparking in a way that means trouble.
He wouldn't have started off with such a cheeky greeting had he registered the stern look on her face before letting his tongue get the better of him, but honestly she looked like some kind of badass angel hovering over him as he stirred. Now that he's glancing around the room, though, it doesn't seem like he got lucky last night at all, or that he's got any form of luck right now in fact, because while the view outside looks eerily similar to the one from Robin's window, the room he's in is definitely not Robin's living room. Plus, his head is pounding and his mouth feels drier than it's ever felt in his entire life, and it really isn't the best scenario in which to be meeting female company.
"What are you doing in my apartment?" the woman demands, shifting her hands to her hips and giving him a chance to sneak a quick once-over – she really is stunning and in more than just her face, with a great figure that her oversized t-shirt does nothing to hide (probably her pajamas, he realizes, just as he notices that she's not wearing anything to cover her long creamy legs and that the way the shirt is hanging off her shoulder shows just enough skin to make him more than a little hot and bothered, and hell it isn't even that much skin). He vaguely recognizes her voice from somewhere, despite the fact that it's ringing in his head and making it hard to think, and her face does look a little familiar, but at the moment all he can do is swallow.
"Bloody hell, Robin must be really hung up about Regina if he brought you here," he says probably a little tactlessly, especially if this is some kind of weird dream where Robin decided to spontaneously and thoroughly renovate his living room, but he's still holding onto the stupid hope that it is.
The woman huffs out a dangerous sigh. "Who's Robin? Who are you?"
All at once, the memory snaps into place (literally snaps against his skull, and he almost winces): he's seen her a few times around the apartment complex, mostly in the stairwell and with her keys in the door to 3B as he comes and goes – she seems to be Robin's next door neighbor, from what little he'd seen of her since Robin had moved in a month ago, but he'd never gotten a good look at her until now.
And what a waste of time all that's been, he thinks with faint delight through the pain of his vicious hangover, because he could have spent his time being slightly more neighborly towards this beautiful woman (they're neighbors by association, of course) rather than drinking his sorrows away. For now, though, he still needs to deal with the fact that she is in absolutely no mood to be any sort of neighborly with him, because obviously he's still in her apartment, lying on her couch like an idiot.
"I apologize, love," he says, slowly sitting up and extending a hand to what he hopes is her disbelieving face through the foggy haze of his spinning vision. "Killian. Killian Jones."
She pauses before taking his hand suspiciously, and only for a brief second, and he can't say that he blames her. "Emma. So what are you doing here, exactly?"
"Ah, well… It appears as though I've broken into the wrong apartment. I believe my friend Robin lives next door to you."
"Robin… He have a kid? Tiny, with dimples?"
"That's the one. The child's name is Roland." He tries to stand up but then his head protests and his stomach churns almost violently, and he clamps a hand over his mouth to bury the nausea, all thought of introductions and excuses and apologies flying right out of his mind. How much did he even have to drink last night? Apparently too much to even recognize that he'd broken into a completely unfamiliar place.
He doesn't even notice she's left the room, too caught up in trying not to get sick over her carpet, until she's nudging his leg with a bucket in one hand and a glass of water in the other.
"I haven't made coffee yet," she says almost apologetically, ridiculously, but he sips the water with more appreciation than he's ever had for anything in his entire life. Normally he'd smirk, make some snarky comment about her being awfully nice for not owing him anything, but he figures he's already troubled her enough that all he can feel is embarrassment and gratitude.
"Sorry, love," he mutters in between slow breaths. He keeps his head down for a few seconds longer, just to make sure nothing's in danger of coming back up, and then when he looks up she surprises him again with her mouth set in a kind of awkwardly crooked half-grin. "Something funny about me almost vomiting all over your living room?"
"No, nothing." The smile vanishes in an instant, much to his disappointment. "You okay?"
"Never better." He grunts as he pushes himself off of his knees, rising to his feet as he feels the room spinning around him dazedly, but he doesn't miss the way her eyes flutter to his bare chest before locking back onto his, her mouth set in a firm line on her pretty face, or the way she takes half a step back to avoid getting anywhere close to touching him.
"Are you sure? There's a bit of hallway left before the door."
He smirks at her before shrugging his shirt on. "You really want to get rid of me, don't you?"
"It's Saturday morning, and I just woke up. I'm not really in the mood to play the nurse right now."
"Perhaps another time, then? In costume?"
"Get the hell out of my apartment." She shoves him with no little force, the palm of her hand warm against his shoulder. He chuckles, ignoring the jolt of paint it sends to his head, as she all but herds him towards the door and yanks it open unceremoniously. Before stepping out into the hallway, though, he turns to her with what he hopes to be his most winning grin.
"Thank you, love, truly, for both your care and your hospitality for the night. Hopefully the next time I spend the night in your apartment it will be in your wonderful company."
The pink blush that floods her cheeks is entirely worth it before she slams the door in his face, and if he's having a little too much fun thinking of ways to thank her for her brief display of kindness, he doesn't really care – his life has definitely just gotten a lot more interesting with this Emma as his new almost-neighbor.